


To Thine Own Heart Be True

by Laura_McEwan



Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-18
Updated: 2013-01-18
Packaged: 2017-12-04 01:25:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/704894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laura_McEwan/pseuds/Laura_McEwan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hutch takes temporary body art to a new level to show his love for Starsky.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Thine Own Heart Be True

**Author's Note:**

  * For [xtexan86](https://archiveofourown.org/users/xtexan86/gifts).



As tattoos went, it wasn’t as bad as most. Cute little shadowed heart, “TINA” in a pretty script written across it.  And up close, it truly was a work of art, with details not as obvious as from a distance.

The problem was, the tattoo was currently pressed rather intimately against Starsky’s face, and the body it displayed upon hadn’t been washed in a while.

A very long while.

The man was huge, taller than Starsky by eight inches and outweighing him by over a hundred pounds. When the furniture coming off the conveyor belt hit Tiny in the head, he’d tumbled onto Starsky, unconscious. They were just lucky the furniture had fallen off the other way.

Starsky wriggled and pushed but he couldn’t get out from under him. He could breathe, at least. And Hutch knew where he was.

Ten minutes later, Starsky gave up on waiting, worried that maybe Hutch was hurt. Tiny hadn’t come to yet.

He got his feet under him somehow and lifted with his entire body, hoping his back would hold out. Tiny’s weight suddenly lightened and there was Hutch, blinking at him.

“You all right?”

“Yeah, I think so, you?” Starsky replied, getting to his knees.

“Furniture hit me. I was out cold for a bit.”

Of course. Hutch had been ten feet away the entire time.

“Nice tattoo. Hey, Tiny. Wake up. You’re under arrest.”

*~*~*

That night, after they’d both been checked out at the hospital and sent home with nothing more than “take two days off and don’t forget the aspirin,” Starsky rolled him in bed and gently made love to him.

After, Starsky sprawled on his stomach, catching his breath. Hutch turned over and traced a fingernail along one lovely buttock.

“You could get a tattoo. Right here. A heart like Tiny’s. Put my name in it.”

Starsky snorted. “Ain’t no needles touching my ass, chump. How about you, you do it.”

“For you, it’d have to be a slice of pizza, dripping with pepperoni. No hearts and flowers for David Starsky.”

Starsky raised his head, contemplating that image. “You’re weird, Hutch.”

“And yet you love me anyway.”

“Well, yeah…”

*~*~*

Hutch gave up listening to Merle ‘The Earl’ and Starsky, discussing service for the Torino and how to soup her up even more, the conversation replete with hand gesticulations and enthusiastic commentary.  He took off down the street, waving an exasperated hand at Starsky calling after him.

They’d planned to go down to the beachfront after dropping off the car anyway; Starsky would catch up later.

Strolling among the artists’ stalls, Hutch breathed a peaceful breath. This is where I belong, he thought, among the painters and poets, singers and writers. Not in the dirty streets of Bay City among the drug runners and gang wars, the filth of hunger and needles and death.

Starsky’s face rose in his imagination, and he smiled ruefully. Without the force, Starsky would not be part of his life. Not his partner, not his lover.

Not anything. A Starsky-shaped hole in his life that Hutch wouldn’t have known how to fill with the rightly shaped piece of someone or something.

Besides, Starsky allowed a lot of latitude for Hutch’s music and painting, his stage fright and his earnest lyrics. He understood that creativity was a not just a hobby for Hutch, but a deep-seated need that fed his soul and ultimately made him a better cop, to see things differently, to understand people more deeply.

He wove his way around the few last stalls and turned at the end, to see a tattoo vendor. Henna tattoos – temporary, pretty. Hutch admired the sample display, the curlicues and vines and dots placed artfully into intricate and complicated designs.

“See anything you like?” the woman asked, taking payment from a young lady with a striking design on her arm and hand.

Hutch smiled at her. Beyond the woman a set of curtains hung open just enough to reveal a cushioned table. The woman followed his gaze. “For painting in slightly more intimate places,” she said. “Some women like to have it done here.” She waved her hand before her bosom. “Better if I can access without their blouses on, you see.”

“Ah,” Hutch said, and idea blooming.

“And yes, I’ve done them there, too, dearie,” she said, low and quiet. “You interested? Girlfriend get a surprise?”

“How much?” Hutch asked, almost before he realized he had spoken.

“Twenty,” she said, with her hand out.

He paid her.

*~*~*

She was professional, he gave her that. The brush was soft and the henna cool. Hutch tried hard not to think of Starsky at all, and instead tried to think of dark things, evil things, wicked things, to keep his cock from rising under the soft strokes.

“Son, it’s fine if you get hard,” the woman murmured, and Hutch wished he’d asked her name. “It’ll make it easier on me to get the paint underneath anyway.”

And so he squeezed his eyes closed and let her touch him in clinical, artistic ways and after she was done admired the patterns of the raised paste ink and wondered if it would stain his shorts.

She wrapped him in plastic wrap to keep the paste in place, and he tipped her when he left, ducking down to give her a quick peck on the cheek.

“Oh, you,” she said, blushing. “Your girl, she’s lucky.”

“No, I’m the lucky one,” he replied, holding Starsky’s face in his mind as he waved goodbye.

Starsky found him about twenty minutes later, purchasing two hot dogs. One with everything, which he dumped messily into Starsky’s hand, and one with ketchup only for himself.

“Soda,” Starsky grumbled, and Hutch smiled and laid down a quarter for a bottle.

“Merl’s gotta keep her until tomorrow afternoon. You okay with walking back to your place?” Starsky asked around a mouthful of chili and peppers.

“Yup,” Hutch said, leading the way. Venice Place wasn’t but a mile or so up the beach. They shared the bottle as they made their way first to the sand and then out to the cool wet edge of surf, kicking off their shoes and digging in their toes.

“Pasta all right for dinner? Got wine,” Hutch offered, and Starsky smiled and shrugged.

“Yeah, sure. Sounds good to me.”

They walked shoulder to shoulder, bumping occasionally, fingers brushing when they felt far enough away from humanity to not be observed. The sun still hovered relatively high in the sky though the wind had picked up, tousling Starsky’s curls and sending Hutch’s hair into his face.

Hutch felt content. He had Starsky beside him, the sun on his shoulders, food in his belly and paint on his dick. He smiled.

“What?” Starsky asked, bumping him.

“What what?” he replied, bending down to pick up a rock and chucking it out to sea.

“You had that little secret smile on your face. What’s that about?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He started to jog, his shoes hooked into the fingers of one hand. He could hear Starsky’s feet slapping the sand behind him.

“Hey, wait up. I just ate.”

He pulled up, laughing. “I know, Gordo,” he said, reaching out to pat Starsky’s flat belly. “Trying to burn some of those calories out of you.”

“Yeah? I got a better way for us to do that.” Starsky leered, rising up before Hutch’s face as if to kiss him before walking around him.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Better turn up then,” Hutch said, pointing back to shore. Venice Place was only a few blocks inland.

They stopped to put their shoes back on, brushing the sand from their feet as best they could, and once home, dumped them in the greenhouse to deal with later. Hutch put water on to boil, thought about his secret and chopped vegetables for a salad. Starsky spread some bread with butter and garlic powder and wrapped it up in foil for the oven.

“Candles?” Hutch asked, and Starsky lit them, popping the wine cork and pouring as well.

“Again with that grin, Hutch. Don’t think I ain’t noticing,” Starsky said, bringing Hutch his wine as he stirred the sauce.

“Hmm. Sauce is done, take this.”

They settled at the table, digging in. After the bottle was gone, Hutch took Starsky’s hand, made him stand, kissed him, and then pushed him to the bedroom.

“What, no foreplay? A man after my own heart. No cuddles, little kisses by the fire, just strip and do it. I approve.”

Hutch smiled again, held up one finger, and left the room. Hiding in the bathroom, he pulled his jeans down and unwrapped his cock. He brushed away the dried paste from his cock and ass before zipping his jeans back up and returning to the bedroom.

Starsky hadn’t moved. Hutch knelt to unzip and tug the tight, raggedy shorts from Starsky’s body.

Starsky took off his own shirt before pulling off Hutch’s, and then Hutch tumbled them both to the bed.

“Let me just look at you a bit,” Hutch said, stretching out on his back on the bed while Starsky sat on Hutch’s thighs. Hutch dragged one finger up the underside of Starsky’s half-erect cock. “You’re beautiful.”

“Hey, that’s my line, Blondie,” Starsky said, leaning down to kiss him. Hutch wrapped his hand around Starsky’s cock, making Starsky gasp in his mouth. “Gently, gently. Fine piece of work you’ve got in your hand there. Don’t break it.”

Hutch huffed a laugh and Starsky leaned back on his arms, letting Hutch have all the access he wanted. Hutch pulled a tube of lube from the side table. “Me,” he said, and Starsky began to undress him.

“What is—this?” Starsky breathed out the words, cradling Hutch’s cock in both hands.

Hutch chuckled, and looked down at himself, at the dark stains decorating his penis including painted chainlinks that led behind him. “Just a little artistic endeavor,” he replied, leaning in to steal a kiss.

Starsky resisted at first, fascinated by the unusual decoration on the object of his lust, but was soon distracted by Hutch’s tongue reaching into his mouth.

Their kisses grew hotter and more fervent. Hutch handled Starsky gently, knowing what Starsky wanted to do, what Hutch wanted him to do.

Starsky’s hand drifted to Hutch’s cock, smoothing away the last bits of dried paste that Hutch had missed. “Crumbs in the bed, tsk,” he whispered, and Hutch snickered.

Hands roamed and tongues tasted. “Follow the chain,” Hutch gasped, taking Starsky’s hand and dragging a fingertip along the tattoo.

Starsky followed the finger with his mouth, licking and tasting every inch of the painted chain. He turned Hutch over.

Silence.

Hutch finally craned his neck and looked behind him to see why Starsky had stopped touching him. 

Starsky reached down and traced the heart with his finger.  “KH + DS”, he murmured. “You did this for me?”

“Well, it’s only temporary…”

“Don’t care. That’s…terrific! The best thing. Ah, Hutch.”

Their lovemaking was gentle that night. Starsky kept a squeezing hand over his tattoo.  Later, Hutch told him how he’d found the henna parlor and the woman who’d convinced him to do this.

“She said my girlfriend would love it.” They both laughed.

“I’ll have to go find her myself, then,” Starsky said, shaping his words with his hands. “I think a star, sorta like my name, and inside I’d put ‘Torino’. HEY!”

Hutch laughed, first pummeling Starsky with pillows and then kissing him tenderly, reminding his partner just who would always be number one in any tattoo Starsky may get.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Tina, for the 2012 Me & Thee Starsky & Hutch Secret Santa exchange.


End file.
